AN ELEGY Humbly offered to the Memory of the Reverend Father in God Doctor Humphry Henchman, Late BISHOP of LONDON, Who Departed this Life the 8th of October 1675.
Stand off, you Common Vouchers for the Dead,
Whose Muse, like Worms, on Carkasses is fed;
Who oft Assess your Mercinary Eyes
To pay forc'd Tears at unknown Obsequies.
Profane not in Dull Rhymes this Rev'rend Herse,
Nor clogg't with your Set Forms of Tatter'd Verse.
Let Sacred Wit Embalm His Memory,
And Anthems speak him to Posterity:
Whilst all the Raptures in his Praise distill
Not from Pernassus, but from Sion Hill.
Great Pious Prelate! who can Eccho forth
In any measure, thy Transcendent Worth?
How justly we could wish (oh might it be!)
A Second Donne to write thy Elegy.
Yet, though we cannot speak Thee to the full,
'Tis Irreligious to be wholly Dull:
Then give us leave our Sorrows to express,
Although in Words that do but make Thee Less:
When Publick Losses happen, 'tis but fit,
Each man should restifie his sense of it:
Our Mother Church (by boisterous Factions torn,
Whose deeper Skars She has not yet out-worn)
One of her Eldest Sons has lost this day,
A Light that shone with a Celestial Ray;
Whose Presence small pretended Lights did shun,
As Glimmering Stars vanish before the Sun,
And can we weaker Children but Bemoan
Our Israels Horsemen and her Chariots gone?
A man of a true Christian temper, Fit
To Feed the Flock, and also Govern it;
From Superstition, and from Schisme free,
Gentle, yet Just to his Authority.
His Moral Virtues did such splendor yield,
Pagans would Altars to less Merit build:
Where yearly burning Rich Sabean Gums,
The Curling Odors of their Hecatombs,
Should reach his Soul in Heav'n; But we must pay
No such Oblations; But a purer way
Of Imitation, whilst we panting tend
To Live like Him, and make as blest an End.
His Faith was still pregnant with Charity,
And his Religion taught him Loyalty;
His very Looks were Sacred; And In's Face
Primitive Zeal retain'd its ancient Grace;
A sweet, yet awful Presence, where we see
A General Council in Epito me;
A Well-poiz'd Judgement, with stupendious parts,
Store-house of Tongues, and Magazine of Arts;
Another Austin for Sublimer Sense,
A Chrysostome for Sacred Eloquence:
Long had he here, with all Good mens Applause,
Dispens'd his Master's Oracles and Laws.
But now his Work is finish'd, his Race run,
And he receives the Crown that he hath won;
And when his Lord shall come at the last Day,
He'll be his Hench-man, and prepare the Way.
EPITAPH.
Waiting the Resurrection of the Just,
Here lies Deposited the precious Dust
Of a Grave Prelate of so Clear a Fame,
Even Schismaticks in Him could find no Blame;
London, bewails his loss, whilst Heaven in Love
Translates him to the Hierarchy above.
FINIS.